By the way, out of respect to those surely innocent (?) parties, the English poets, perhaps it should be noted that, as the title suggests, these are mutant versions of the Lyrick (that is, the originals have been tampered with, just a a bit).

Fish may be serenelike they have all the answers.But they can't eat pie.

or,

Rain falls steadily.Where did the cicadas go?Cherry pie beckons.

or,

Autumn leaves are sad.Pie enters tummy.Yummy!

or,

Search deeply The EndlessDo you have room in your lifefor pie?

This form was invented by John Bridges, artist and former manager of my former bakery's former cafe. Many of these piekus are in my possesion, some were written by John, some by myself, some by other staffers of the now defunct Blue Wolff Desserts.Eat!Fress!Mange!

I've loved coming to visit here and to see what wonderful pictures you've written such thought-provoking words to accompany.

You've helped me in my writing as well, to see the importance of trying to make my words match my personality. I think this is the way forwards in learning the craft, or at least in making sure that I write what I truly feel.

Ay Caramba! a brace of bards, a charming waffler, a swimming pianist, and yet another Japanese sex spammer (sigh! now deleted), in a pear tree...

This feels like about the sixth day of Christmas already and it's only... what is it? Time once again to dust off the cheerful little nihilist ditties... The Nocturnall Upon St Lucy's Day (Being the Shortest Day)?

So Carol, speaking of a song in our hearts, thanks for coming. In this festive season your very name is thematic. When the porcupine plays the piano cake it licks its quills afterward, duh. Neat piano cake eh? Imagine the sweet possibilities for quill licking after a delicious arpeggio.

What! Would you slap the Porcupine?Unhappy child — desist!Alas! That any friend of mineShould turn Tupto-philist.

(Hilaire Belloc)

Not quite couplets I guess... but to make up for it here's a naked guy in the snows of the Alaskan tundra with red streaks in his hair and only his porcupine to keep him warm

__

There is no hope, barely appetite

To slake, within a Scot, for Pope

Who would in any case a mite

Of Blake prefer, oh never mind...

__

Pinkerbell, my dear, let me simply offer you good cheer

And say it's been a pleasure waffling forward with you this year.

__

And then went down to water's edge, Billy Mills and me,Set keel to breakers, forth on the Little Swee'PeaAnd bore Sweetpeas aboard her...

With such steady/heady company, even when mucking about in the blind drifts one was never going to stray very far off course from base camp...

And digging back out from under the forever mutable tundra, warmest season's greetings to world poet Tom and genius of all loci Val, amiable faces twinkling in from up top of the smokehole -- an especially happy Christmas to the two of you...

And not forgetting Anne V generous if perhaps inadvertent begetter of the most intriguing of poet pseudonymous monikers...

And Stephen, abiding monitor of the lights of the ridge and channel...

And Aditya, timekeeper of the nano-turnings of melancholy/cosmic himalayan clocks...

And painter poet Leigh, adroit medium of the several congruent media...